Adrift Upon a Temperate Wind
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: After two doomed marriages, Elizaveta runs away from her disaster-ridden home. In a small inn she finds a Belgian woman and the two seek freedom somewhere as far away from home as possible. AusHun, PruHun, and then HunBel. Human AU. M for aggressive themes.


_I do not own Hetalia_

_There is a reference to Amy Tan's writing in the earlier part of this one-shot, by the way._

* * *

Adrift Upon a Temperate Wind

Elizaveta sat on the floor, weeping for all she had lost. She gathered her skirts into her lap, pressing her knees to her chest. Her arms were wrapped around her trembling calves, her face pressed down, to hide her shameful tears. Her shoulders shook, laments leapt in her mind like insects skimming the surface of a clear pool of water.

And she had once been so strong! She could use any weapon of the hunt and snatch any racing animal. She could defeat any opponent in battle. As a child she refused to grow out her hair or wear dresses. So stubborn. Always itching for a fight.

Now, she wept on the floor, her back pressed to the edge of her bed. The sheets were pressed perfectly down, done by her own hand, some even sewn by her own calloused fingers. A skill she had picked up when the days were once so good. The window let in the slow, harsh gray light of mid-autumn.

She sniffed and raised her head, tilting it back and staring at the pale ceiling. Once so strong, now so weak and swollen and miserable. Oh, the day she had thought her life could turn out to be riddled with luck and joy. Once she had thought that her decisions were good, she had placed so much careful thought into them. It only took one powerful wave of emotion to clear her mind of logic and replace it for a gluttonous desire for joy. If only that wasn't the case. If only, if only.

Slowly, she stood and went to the heavy armoire. She pulled the doors open with one hand, and with the other she wiped her cheeks. Her hair had come loose from its complicated braid, falling down over her face and pulling painfully against the bound strands that had held it up in a bun. She reached behind and loosened them, letting her brown curls fall free. She placed the pins and ribbons on the drawer. No more. She had suffered for a year. She would resume her strength and do what she thought was best for herself. And for the new life within her.

An hour remained until he would return. She had time. She pulled out a large, leather red bag from the inside of the armoire, the one that she had used two years before to move into this house. She placed the bag on the bed, causing the springs to grunt. She opened it, still choked with sobs, and dug through the contents. Her hairbrush, toiletries, money, passport, identification, and various other useful items were still inside. She turned towards the door and looked through the clothing, thinking about what had happened and so relieved that she could escape. She had been waiting for so long for this opportunity, when her husband would be far away and she would be free to leave. The manservants were cooking for the banquet her husband planned on holding.

"You're to sit down and look pretty." He had said, chewing on the end of a cigarette. She had stood behind him, watching the maids bustle around them. He looked at her, his red eyes burning. "I'll be gone until six. You can prepare until then. Make sure you make a good impression." That was all. Whatever she had to say didn't matter. She was a woman, only a woman. She pressed her lips together, pinching back words of retort in her fury at the injustice.

If that was all he said, she would have been long gone by now, instead of spending so long moping and crying. She went to one of the maids to help prepare tea for her husband at his leisurely orders. As she went, her feet clumsy and starting to swell, she stumbled and knocked over a potted plant. The maid, elderly and bitter, scolded her.

This caught her husband's attention. He went back, a cruel smile spreading across his lips.

"Useless woman." He had said. She looked at him, holding a towel in her hands. The water from the plant spread to her feet, staining her shoes. The flower had rolled away and the soil was spilled. Shards of glass scattered across the floor.

Elizaveta bowed her head in apology.

Her husband, Gilbert, clicked his tongue. He stepped away as a finger of spilt water reached for him.

"Clean it up."

"I can't!" Elizaveta said hotly before she could stop.

He stared at her, enraged that she had the guile to spit at him so. He raised his hand flat and brought it across her head. She felt the blow. It was light, a warning.

"Clean it up." he hissed.

She held her hand to her head, her lip trembling. He was not so mad about the broken plant. He was rich enough to buy a thousand more of them and hardly even dent his wealth. Something else ate him up, and proceeded to poison her. "Yes." She said, painfully bending down and starting to clear the mess.

"And don't talk back to me, not ever again." He said, turning away. He muttered something about how other women were much better, prettier, more obedient, and that this useless whore was due to be set in the ground.

Tears blurred her vision. She cleared the mess, trembling.

As she remembered this, her body threatened to wail again. Elizaveta held her tongue. The beast was gone for the time being. She set the trousers and comfortable, warm clothing inside of her purse, folded neatly. She placed a small leather case of sewing supplies, in case something tore, inside the inner folds. Her moves were quick, urgent.

Finally, she thought she had collected what she wanted. Then, something in the far back caught her eye. She moved rows of dresses she would never wear again, a fur coat that smelled of dust, and one of Gilbert's suits. She pulled the dress she saw, glittering like jade, from the back.

She held it out. It was the first gift Gilbert had ever given her, when everything was still good and happy. It was beautiful and smooth, an import. Gold and red lace hemmed the dress, around the sleeves and the diagonal line running over the breast, there was a vine-shaped pattern of silver. Images of cranes and rivers patterned the front, done with fine lines and delicate fabric.

Before Elizaveta could think of how to stop herself, she took off the red dress she wore now and pulled this one on. The soft red dress fell to the floor around her bare feet. She pulled the green dress on. The material stretched around her enlarged stomach and breasts uncomfortably. Before she could force a hand through, she was ensnared by the fabric. Instead of feeling upset again, she grew angry.

She dug in her purse with a fear hand for scissors. When Gilbert had purchased the dress, it fit perfectly. Is _that _why he didn't love her anymore? She sliced at the beautiful fabric she now hated, loathed. She cut it off, tearing down the seams at the side, at the breast, at the stomach. The torn shreds littered the floor. She was tempted to pick them up, to keep the room tidy, but stopped halfway down.

Let it stay. Let it be a symbol for when Gilbert returns.

A thought fell into her mind. She paused, reaching for her hair. Should she cut it? As a symbol of her exodus? She fought with the thoughts, getting on a poor man's clothes, trousers, a warm shirt, and a long jacket on top. No. Not yet.

Once clothed and prepared, with her red dress spilled like blood and the beautiful jade ribbons on the floor as evidence, she turned and left. There was no way to find where she would be, because she didn't know either.

* * *

Elizaveta Hedervary was a selfish girl. Elizaveta Edelstein was a hopeful, and sad, young woman. Elizaveta Beilschmidt—well, she was a past self that was slowly losing her previous hope and had lost her innocence. Now, Elizaveta threw away that surname too, like throwing away an old shirt or moving out of a house. She had gone through so many names that her own identity was becoming harder and harder to pinpoint. So, she decided to return to being Elizaveta Hedervary, the girl she was before she married her first husband at nineteen.

It was not her choice to marry Roderich Edelstein. When she first saw him she screamed at her parents for choosing such a man. She ran to her room, still howling like a wounded animal, slamming doors, threatening to do damage to everyone and herself. She wept in her room, imagining the man she had seen only once. Her parents scolded her once she had calmed.

"Do you want a future?" Her father hissed through the door. "We chose you the best man we could find."

"What kind of wife screams when something doesn't go exactly her way?" Her mother added.

Elizaveta yelled something horrible in response, but it was too slurried and muddled with tears and laments that her parents didn't know what she said. They left her alone, going back downstairs to pay the dowry.

She had just seen the man, had said only one or two odd words before being seized by fear and disgust. She was a young and had often acted poorly, but the maids were kind to her and knew she was intelligent and strong, although reckless.

The man had smiled gently at her. He was old. Too old, Elizaveta thought. Sure he was rich and could play any instrument with loving ease. He appeared uptight and businesslike, nothing like the fun loving young men Elizaveta had spotted walking outside or had spoken to with her female cousins and friends. This man regarded her politely, as a human, but could snap back to strictly formal matters. He wouldn't tolerate danger or fun well, Elizaveta thought ruefully.

He had neatly trimmed brown hair, with several gray streaks running through them. His long, severe face was pale and his eyes, dark spots under thick eyebrows, didn't hold her attention for long. And the spot under his lip. How hideous! Elizaveta thought in disgust, twisting the white fabric of her dress between her fingers. Once he left, then she had her tantrum.

The day following, she met with one of her female cousins and talked about it. Her cousin, a plump girl with gypsy-style black hair, nodded at her in understanding. They sat in the garden under a clear, vaulting sky.

"You made the right choice in telling your parents you disliked him. How boring would it all be." The cousin, Valerie, said.

Elizaveta nodded grimly. "But they'll marry me to him anyway."

"I bet he has no personality."

"Maybe he is kind." Elizaveta chanced at good luck.

Valerie pulled a face, crossing her legs and placing her hands in her lap. She shook her head sternly, pressing her lips together. She was jealous of the freedom Elizaveta had. But her marriage would wield much nicer results. She would be happy, and for a long time. She wouldn't suffer like Elizaveta was fated to.

Valerie suddenly blushed. Her eyes gleamed with mischief. She bent forwards and whispered giddily. "What about the sex thing?"

Elizaveta giggled shrilly. At that time, Elizaveta knew nothing about that thing. It was a forbidden fruit hanging up on a high branch. She couldn't reach it, and she could barely see it. She knew something about it from rumors and the maids' gossip. As far as she knew, it had something to do with hidden cupboards and little animals. It was a delicious secret that she and Valerie shared. Valerie knew nothing about it too. But she had a keen ear for stories, especially when the elusive, sordid s-word was involved.

"I heard that old men were dusty and you did it maybe once or twice a year." Valerie whispered, ducking her head. The rose bushes rustled in the wind.

Elizaveta had a vague idea about how it was connected to children. She frowned. "Does that mean there won't be little boys to tug at my skirts?"

Her mother had told her that when she married she should have sons, they are better for a family. And that if she had girls she would have to raise them very well. Elizaveta understood this, and decided it would be easier to raise boys. She was under the impression, in her mind, that having a boy or girl would be as easy as flipping a switch or choosing which flower to pick. Except, she would have to tell her husband to pay extra special attention and choose the right flower. Some husbands might forget, apparently, as she saw there were so many girls in her family. If it was so easy, why couldn't they have just wished harder?

"No." Valerie said with a shake of her head.

"No?"

"No, older men make sure there are boys when they do it, so they don't have to worry about it. Or else their bones might hurt."

"Oh."

"It won't be much, but at least you won't have to suffer abuse. I heard about a woman whose husband wanted boys so much. So they did it many times—so many times that she split open, right down the middle! All her insides fell out from touching, touch too much and the skin will burn off! But it felt so good that they did it anyway that both of them burst wide open."

Elizaveta shrieked and touched her stomach. It struck her, behind her fear, that maybe Valerie knew something she didn't. She prodded her with questions, inquiry after inquiry, testing her, trying to find out what it was that Valerie hid.

"How do you know this?" Elizaveta asked at last, once she was tired of seeking.

Valerie turned red. She pushed her fingers into the rigid white collar on her dress and bent it down, showing a bright red mark on her skin. She giggled and shut it.

Elizaveta stared with wide eyes.

Valerie held one finger up to her lips: secret.

After this, Elizaveta didn't see Valerie much. She became engrossed in the sea of preparations and extra lessons her mother gave.

"A good man, he's a very good man." Her mother said constantly as she taught Elizaveta how to sew a tablecloth or how to mend a broken button. "He will treat you well."

Elizaveta had thrown off her angry and surprise and replaced it with an aura of doom. She looked at her mother as if she had been condemned to sweep a dirt floor for centuries. Her father, she feared what her anger could awaken in him, a gentle man.

Then again, she really wanted to know what that sex thing was. Her curiosity chewed her up and spit her back as a corrupt girl. She learned quietly, prepared her dress, the food, gathered her dowry: money she would always have and in several years withdrew to keep it with her forever.

The day of the wedding was too crowded for her to remember much. She recalled dances and songs and finally how she walked up the aisle and saw her now husband standing next to her, smiling. She couldn't help but blush.

He would be a good man. He never got angry at her or raised his hand. At times he got annoyed, and would give her burning looks that awoke a series of guilty waves inside of her. She would apologize and he would forgive her easily. He was not a gentle man, however. She saw how he could lose his temper during the lessons he gave on the pianoforte or violin. She saw how he could get irritated, crimsoning, when he spoke to business associates. But she also saw his kindness, a special kind of kindness that only age could give.

So she tried to be a loyal wife. She cooked and cleaned, as her mother said, but soon Roderich told her not to worry so much. He could cook, too.

"What do you mean?" Elizaveta asked. "You do your share of work, I do mine."

In those days she could say her opinion freely, and have an ear to listen to her. That's what Roderich did. Before any of his important business and trade decisions, he would ask her for what she thought. She gave good, intelligent advice. She had been educated, first by nuns, then by tutors. Roderich would consider her choice, take it to the board, and come back, kissing her on the lips.

"Marvelous! Our decisions have flooded the board!" Roderich then went on to compliment her, saying how an extra mind like hers a few years back would have made him so much richer, and happier.

That same evening, Elizaveta kissed his cheek.

"Were you unhappy?"

"I was married to a good woman," Roderich said. That's how he was. He never saw bad in anyone, not all bad, at least. "But she was hurt by her family. They made her think nothing she said was important. Slowly she spoke less and less until she went mute and silent. She grew sick, no matter what I tried. She gave me a son and daughter, as you know."

And Elizaveta did know. The children were adults. The son had his own line of work and the daughter was a teacher. Both were happy, Roderich was proud.

Then his smile melted. He looked at Elizaveta, kissed her forehead. "Elise was a very good woman. I loved her."

Elizaveta didn't feel jealous, surprisingly. She felt a role model. Maybe not in power or strength, but in gentleness. Roderich told Elizaveta how Elise used to take in stray animals and help them get better, in her own quiet way. How she would always listen. How she had a patient hand. How she would weep in sympathy. How she would be so kind to Roderich that he feared his heart would be torn into pieces from her love.

"She could have been a strong woman." Roderich explained. "I saw it in her eyes. The first night, when she was filled with the first son, I saw that fire in her eyes. I saw it as if a veil had been lifted. She wanted to force her power over mine. She had willpower, but it was smothered and crushed by ideals not her own. I hate that about society. How simple differences could crush a spirit. If only we could be behind thin sheets, so no one knew how we looked and had to discover us only through our minds. Wouldn't the world be a bit more peaceful?"

Elizaveta agreed. She knew what Roderich meant by fire. He had seen it in her, too, and nearly stopped what he was doing to weep.

The night after the wedding, Elizaveta, hardly twenty, was terrified. She sat on the bed, her knees to her chest, staring at Roderich. He approached her. She yelped in surprise. Then, to her surprise, he soothed her. He sat on top of her, dressed in an undershirt and trousers. She was in a slip, her heart pounding wildly.

"Don't worry." He said. "If it hurts, tell me to stop."

Her undressed and slowly led her through the process. He told her what each part did, and why. He explained why everything happened, why she bled once a month, and what he would do. She absorbed the knowledge that had once been so far away. She climbed the tree and plucked the fruit.

He touched her and kissed her, relaxing her body. She shut her eyes, letting the fire burn within. For now, she would listen. Next time she would take risks and go on adventures. The act was pleasurable. Someone, maybe Valerie, had once told her it would hurt and she would bleed. She didn't. At first, once the act was done and Roderich peeked into the hall to summon a maid, she began to cry wildly.

Roderich turned back, pulling his underclothes on.

"What happened?" He asked gently.

"I'm not bleeding." She said miserably. Bleeding meant she was a virgin. Was she not? Had she done something impure before? She returned to being the ignorant youth curled up on the bed.

"You aren't supposed to. Bleeding is myth, and abuse." Roderich said simply.

The maid walked in and gave him a cup of strong-smelling tea. He told Elizaveta to drink it. She drank it deeply. The bed croaked as Roderich climbed in next to her, holding her close. She leaned her head on his shoulder, scowling at the bitter-tasting liquid.

"It's so you don't have a baby." He said. "I don't think you want me to be the father of your children. I don't to father any more." His face clouded over and he turned away. Elizaveta didn't want to protest. He had become mysterious again.

Afterwards, Valerie proved to be only half-right. It didn't happen often, because Roderich's bones hurt. But if Elizaveta felt like she wanted it badly, he would oblige. Sometimes he would do something different, like use his mouth or hands. After these times she didn't have to drink the foul liquid.

Once she heard a maid say that Roderich used to be callous and harsh, but age and the loss of a first wife had softened him.

Elizaveta knew her life was good. She thanked any deity she could think of a hundred times over, for the good fortune that had fallen in her lap. She tried to enjoy it, regretting that she had been so harsh when she first saw him. He proved to be a wonderful, kind man. She thought of writing to her parents in thanks, but she forgot and never did. She hoped they knew without her having to utter a single word.

For nearly ten years this continued. Her life was so good. But, as the tenth year drew to a close and she went from being an innocent, spoiled girl to a matured, calm woman, her luck faltered and bad fate rotted the following years to come.

During a piano lesson, Roderich grew sick. He fainted to the floor. The maids rushed in as the child he was educating screamed and wept. Elizaveta had been in the garden, wondering vaguely if more good things were to come. She heard the cries and ran, dropping the shawl that Roderich had given her as a wedding present. It fell on the grass, a white stain on green.

She knew, as her heart sunk, that Roderich was already dead. The house turned into a disaster. Elizaveta grew numb. She mourned him, holding his ghost in her heart, seeing him in her reflection, holding him inside of her like a gold chain around her neck. She didn't even hear the reason for his sudden illness. Someone suggested poison. She didn't know. Sometimes, she didn't even believe he was gone.

When she woke she would turn in her bed, only to find a fading ghost and a soft indent where he used to sleep.

The piano room became a host for all sorts of new ghosts. She rarely passed by it. When she did, she would falter, as if she heard a soft trickle of notes from the piano. So beautiful only Roderich could have made him. Her hopes rocketed. Maybe not to find him, but to find a ghost of him. So she could tell him how thankful she was, how much she had come to love him.

But when she turned, he was no longer there.

Like her husband's earthly spirit, Elizaveta's good luck had departed.

* * *

It was at the funeral when Elizaveta saw Gilbert for the first time. He was an old business partner. One that Roderich often complained about. "Ignorant! Young! Overly ambitious and self-absorbed. Never deal with a man like that," he would say, giving Elizaveta a very pointed look.

Elizaveta met his paint-red eyes and turned away at once. She wore a long, gossamer black dress and a veil over hey eyes, draped from the flat brim of her hat. She sat near the body she refused to look at. She heard the chants, the laments, the kind words spoken by the living about the dead for the living. Her heard dripped with grief. She barely thought.

She roamed the house afterwards, still grieving.

She was doing just this, dressed in a pale nightgown, when Gilbert came to visit her. It was late and the manservant was reluctant to let him in. Elizaveta drifted towards the door. She thought in the back of her mind that it would be a good distraction to see someone. If she was too sad for too long, she could get sick.

The oak doors swung open and her eyes met spots of red again, under a mop of stark-white hair. The man held a white rose. He politely greeted the workers of the house and walked in. He sea Elizaveta, gave a polite bow, and held out the rose.

"For you, my lady." He said.

Elizaveta took the flower, enchanted by the kindness. Then her enchantment vanished and merged with hatred. She assumed that the man wanted to further their business, make some more money, milk whatever was left from what Elizaveta owned—she had inherited a good portion of Roderich's money (although a majority went to his family)—and she was reluctant to give it away.

In a few months it wouldn't matter. Her share of the money would be stolen away from her, whisked away why her eyes stared dreamily at Gilbert. What a fool. Elizaveta cursed herself later on in life, looking back at the past and wishing she could dip her hands into the long gone time and strangle it.

"Thank you." Elizaveta said tersely. "May I be of service, sir?"

She gave the flower to a maid that she kept by her side, a lady in waiting. In Hungarian, the language of her mother, she told the maid to burn the flower. She said it sweetly, though. Gilbert smiled, as if she had told the maid to place it in the finest crystal vase and place it atop a fireplace. The maid nodded, hiding her surprise, and walked away.

"I wanted to see you." Gilbert explained.

"Why?"

"You see, when I saw you, I couldn't help but think this a worthy wife! Beautiful, what a lovely face and body. And once, your husband," he muttered a peaceful word of respect, "he gave me some of your cooking to taste. How marvelous, I thought. Why, if only I could have it each day."

"What do you want, sir?" Elizaveta spat, although her cheeks burned.

"Let me continue my preamble, madame," Gilbert overrode her. "You see, then I thought: I have no wife. I am your age, I believe. And a single woman would lose her mind with all this money, all this wealth surrounding her! I couldn't let that happen. And I'm an eligible bachelor."

And although he didn't say it, his gaze meant it. _I'll make your wildest dreams come true in ways that the old man never could._

It should have been an obvious clue that Elizaveta should have forbade him from entering her house. He had spoken of her like an object. Roderich never did that. Elizaveta told him she would consider. But she knew the choice wasn't hers. Gilbert had strings through to the most important figures. A small tug or shake of one of the threads and Elizaveta would be thrown to the ground, on her hands and knees, and all choice would be stripped of her anyway.

When she married in the spring, "to do as my husband's last wish willed," she was forced to say, those strings were tugged. The marriage was festive and loud. Gilbert, Elizaveta realized, may not be so bad. He wanted her desperately, for whatever reason, and she had obliged. He was her age. Selfishly, she knew that she wouldn't have to suffer his loss. Later she would even morbidly desire it. And, a younger version of herself bubbled to the surface. It wanted Gilbert for his guile and charm. He knew how to make seeming friends, how to entertain, and how to be lively. He would be entertaining.

And, as Elizaveta sat quietly next to him, he did not allow her to speak, she wondered if she would grow to love the good in his heart. If she could overlook the dark stains in it. If there was any good.

That night, Gilbert must have known that Elizaveta had no innocence left to lose. Or, he thought that. He abused her in such ways that any last drop of white purity she had was drained way. He threw her on the bed drunkenly, tore her clothes off, hit her, begged her to say dirty words, grabbed her hair, entered her. She tried to find some joy in it, but she was too terrified to think: to speak.

The next morning he tried to make up for it by giving her that green dress. She thanked him, thinking he would have his good moments.

He didn't.

Sometimes he would treat her well, buy her nice things. Perhaps he felt guilty for all the wrongs he committed.

Then he would abuse her, belittle her, tell her to do a maid's job. At night he would find new, "exciting" ways to frighten her. Her body became a torn, smeared canvas. She would tell the maid to bring in the tea, afraid she would carry a smaller version of that monster inside of her.

It was too late to stop now.

She ordered the tea when Gilbert had fallen asleep.

One night, after a relatively normal (only one or two slaps) event, she went quietly to the maid when she thought Gilbert was asleep. She whispered the order to the maid and returned to bed.

When she returned, her blood turned to ice.

Gilbert was awake, staring at her. His face was red with rage.

"Is that why I have no heir?" He asked.

"Hm?" She asked innocently. "It is only so I can rest my bones, so I don't become an old woman soon."

"Do you think I'm stupid? After all I do to you, you insult me with this?" he spat. "I know what you're doing."

Elizaveta became half her size. He seemed to rise up like a mountain, despite being skinny and ferrety. He approached her, step by step. He insulted her, spat at her, jabbed his finger at her.

"And I thought I wasn't trying hard enough! I thought you were useless. No, now I know you're worthless, useless, garbage. Any woman with a brain is not worth my time." He stomped his foot down.

The maid walked in then. He went up to her and slapped the cup out of her hand. It flew to the ground, the reddish liquid splattered around the carpet. The glass shattered with a loud crash. The maid went to pick it up.

"No." Gilbert hissed.

She stopped.

"My wife will clean up her mess."

The maid reluctantly walked away.

Elizaveta knew better than to linger. She squatted down, picking up the shards. Gilbert stepped behind her, placed his hands on her back, and forced her down. Her hands met the broken glass and split open. Blood mingled with the spilt liquid. Gilbert slammed into her. She screamed and begged his forgiveness, his mercy, anything. Stop stop stop! But Gilbert didn't. He laughed, told her to scream more.

"Go on! Holler like the beast you are!"

After that, once he was done, he went to his bed and plumped down. Elizaveta curled up on the floor. She was tempted to lick the liquid off the carpet. But if she didn't grow, then he would think she simply couldn't conceive. Then he would do it more and more, mercilessly. Or maybe he would throw her out for being useless. Whatever attracted him to her in the first place was now gone.

And it continued. Each night he would wait until she fell asleep, so she didn't do anything to get rid of the life inside of her. He told the servants that he would kill any of them that attempted to interfere, no matter how much his wife pleaded. Sometimes he seemed to forget her name, replacing the emptiness with "wife" or "woman". A broken man.

But once Elizaveta began to have strange eating habits and began to grow, he became nice to her again. And this time it wasn't out of charm or an ulterior motive. She knew this. He would speak more kindly to her. At night he ignored her. Sometimes he spoke to her stomach. Part of him could love, but it was bruised, battered, depressed, and brought up to believe that he had to be perfect. Elizaveta didn't know much about him.

But, she knew she had to get away.

* * *

After painfully walking through the streets for several hours, Elizaveta thought she would faint. It was a surprise. Once, she ran away as a fourteen year old. Her parents had shown her a strange boy they thought would be a good match. In response, she ran away. She managed two days alone, full of strength.

Now, she could barely get to the forest without wanting to curl up and lose herself inside the cavern of her mind. But she had to go on. She was weaker. First she had been built up, made stronger by love and education, and then she was torn apart by a man who tore himself apart, too.

Then, just as her good fortune went bad, her bad fortune began to clear away. Like heavy clouds after a rainstorm, the sun began to shine through.

The sun came in the form of a young woman and an inn. The young woman stood outside her doors, sweeping up leaves that had scattered around the front steps. The young woman didn't appear to be happy, as if she wanted something more. Something she couldn't fathom, some vague concept like freedom of justice.

Elizaveta approached her.

The young woman looked up, her blonde, thick curls bouncing. She had bright, clever green eyes and cheeks that pushed in on her lips, making them pouty and soft pink, like a rare, sweet fruit. They became friends right away, in a strange way. Elizaveta wanted elusive plans, good in the long run. The woman, Bella, wanted happiness anywhere she could find it.

"Come in, come in." Bella said, ushering Elizaveta into her brother's inn.

Maybe she could tell from Elizaveta's perfumed skin and oiled hair that she was wealthy. But, more likely, Bella didn't care.

That night Elizaveta stayed in Bella's room. The city was popular that time of year and there weren't any other rooms left. Bella, knowing Elizaveta's condition from a single glance, told her not to worry and to stay in her room.

Elizaveta stayed in a room lit with golden orbs of candles, with warm rugs and walls painted with delicate flowers and trees. The room had two beds. Elizaveta began to think this sort of thing happened often.

She set her purse on the bed and sat down. She wasn't far along, maybe three months. Aside from various pains, she wasn't too heavy. Elizaveta thanked Bella several times. Bella shrugged the words off. She left and returned, too quickly for Elizaveta to even absorb the entirety of the room just above the guests'. She brought in warm soup.

As they ate, Elizaveta found herself telling everything to her newfound friend. She talked of loneliness she felt around Gilbert, how it was as if she was trapped in a birdcage, forced to sing to see even a glimmer of sunshine. She talked of pain, of sorrows, of grief, of guilt, of woes. She spoke incessantly, releasing all the pain from her heart. Before she could keep anything in to receive the relief-joy later, it was all gone. She felt like a breath of fresh air, gone of all worries.

And Bella listened patiently. She was good at listening. She made a few comments, nothing too much. In that night their friendship deepened, as though they had been together for not a night but twenty years. Elizaveta stayed there for a week. Bella told her story. And they knew they had to leave together, soon. They had to grab on to the wind and fly away.

* * *

"My story isn't as sorrowful as yours," Bella began with a small chuckle, "But it is worth telling. You told me your story. So in return I tell you mine. It seems to only be proper repayment."

Bella told the story of how she and her brother were clandestine children of a brothel owner. The owner had given birth to the boy first, had given him to her sister to raise. Then came the little girl. So the boy and girl were really only half-brother and sister. But she fell in love with the girl instantly and had trouble parting with her. Many tears were shed of happiness, mixing with tears of sorrow that the infant could not remain.

"Those tears fell on my head and leaked into my brain, making me the way I am." Bella said with a smile.

Bella and her brother grew up hardly knowing their mother. She was an aunt who couldn't refrain from visiting every once in a while. The brother thought her strange, how she looked at them longingly but never came too close. Bella liked her because she got candy, but she was also warmed by the showering love she received from the strange aunt.

Life continued this way, broken up, bleeding lies. Those lies eventually cracked open and the truth spilled out. Slowly, each drop of truth came from their aunt. She was a regular mother. She loved the children, perhaps not as much as she would have loved her own, but enough so the two weren't completely lonely. And, they had each other.

Before her brother, who could only open up an inn and serve foreigners and soldiers, had left, their aunt called them in and told the truth. It was painful for her to tell. So much had weighed her down. The truth didn't shock the two as much as it would have if they had been younger. It was well-timed.

"And, well, it seems like it was all too simple." Bella said, leaning back on the bed, propping her bare feet on the bed. "I can't help but want more. And then you drop into my life."

* * *

Elizaveta remained there for a week as they prepared. In the meanwhile, between carrying for her body and trying to moderate her cravings, she cooked for the inn. She helped the cook and, once the cook realized that this woman meant business and had a passion for making delicious recipes (mostly for herself), he backed away and let her cook. He aspired to be as she was.

When Elizaveta felt she had more strength, she swept the floors, made some beds, and gave Bella's older brother advise. The man went from indifference to a cold kind of respect. Elizaveta wondered if anyone could ever understand his heart.

"Oh, someone does." Bella said when Elizaveta posed the question. She giggled. "He has a wonderful man come by every once in a while. Passionate love making!"

Elizaveta giggled too.

As she did, she grew to love Bella. First as friend, then as a sister.

Once the week ended and they were prepared, Bella and Elizaveta snuck out of the house. Night had fallen, like a cloak over the city, hushing the noises and rocking it to sleep with pulsing moonbeams. Bella and Elizaveta walked through the city, catching cabbies or kind strangers for help. Bella made sure that Elizaveta didn't hurt too badly.

Elizaveta's love for her grew over the month of travel.

One evening as they were trundling along in a carriage, Elizaveta peered over at Bella, who sat, bathed in silvery light.

"Where are we going, exactly. Do you know?"

"Paris." Bella responded.

Elizaveta flushed. "I don't know French! I have forgotten it." Since both had lived in Vienna, they spoke in German to each other.

"I do. I'll teach you. Ah! You shouldn't worry so much." Bella said.

Elizaveta grew enraged. Or maybe it was her stomach protesting. Either way, she thought it was unjust for Bella to take her wherever she pleased.

But soon rationality took its rightful seat again. Elizaveta never asked, and she was getting further and further away from Gilbert by the minute. Who was she to complain?

It took two months, since they were continuously sidetracked, to reach the border of France.

That's when the sister love became romantic love.

The two women sat in an old inn. Elizaveta was heavy and large, plus they had to share a bed. Bella went next to her, placing a hand on Elizaveta's stomach, fascinated. She didn't ask permission. She didn't have to, especially with the link they had formed.

Bella rubbed the belly slowly, softly, then pulled away. She wrapped her arms around her knees, and rested her chin on top. She looked out the window, at the whispers of the wind rustling through the trees. At the moonlight. At the stars.

She turned back to Elizaveta. Elizaveta fell deeply in love. So did Bella. They leaned forwards, their lips meeting, briefly, strangely, and then they drew apart. There was too much to think about for now. Later, they could invest in these strange ideas.

For now, Paris was waiting.

* * *

That was where the infant was born. Screaming, red, female. Named Elise, honor. Elizaveta held her, weeping tears of happiness.

She and Bella raised the girl together, rising above all struggles, finding a name to attach to theirs that they could hold on to.


End file.
